Cut Apart
by fcuking cathy
Summary: It shines. It glides. It relives. It's my everything. It holds my needs, my desires. It's my secret. Some say it destroys. I say it helps. Its my secret. Something which could tear everything apart.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, but I am anxiously awaiting the 6th book. Harry Potter is owned by J.K.Rowling, as do every character and setting within the Harry Potter Realm.

My chest feels like its contracting, my brain is getting fuzzy, my back hurts, my wrists tingle with anticipation, a pain is shooting up and down my arm to where my heart is, just like when you slam your hand in a door. My head starts pounding, I know what's coming, it's becoming too much again.

I stare at my knife; it's helped me for so long. But. One day will it be the death of me? Will the only constant thing, the only friend in my life, deceive me like all the others and end it all? I don't want to die, far from it. I'm not saying that I like life, far from it, but I have my escape that keeps me going day after day. My knife, my Saviour. The one who has stuck by me every time I have felt like crap, who hasn't asked me if I was ok, just relieved me of all the shit in my life, so that I can go on for another day. I owe my life to you.

My knife isn't pretty; it's silver, sleek, plain. But that doesn't matter, why should it? It's kind of like me, except I'm not being used, I'm not here to help others. I don't like self-pity; I just see things as they are. Not blinded by what I wish I could see.

My heart starts beating quickly, anticipation dwells, as my body gets ready to preform the ritual that I now go through once a day at least. I stare at my knife again; it's sparkling, teasing me, and knowing how bad I want it. My fingers start shaking from eagerness, tapping repeatedly on my wooden desk. My mind goes blurry, there's nothing more in the world that I want right now than to feel the knife glide across my skin, to relieve me of my evil emotions.

My whole body shakes as I shut my eyes to try and stop myself from going toward my only relief. Deep inside I know that I shouldn't cut. I know it's a habit, an evil one at that. I know the dangers involved. I know that…that I can't stop. I know that I'm addicted.

My mind goes through all the options I have left, I scream. Which is no help, besides increasing my already pounding headache. I get up to punch the wall, and collapse under the emotional pressure of trying to stop myself.

On the floor I cry tears of anguish, tears of pain, tears of helplessness. I wish I could stop this, stop it all, I keep thinking.

My throat contracts and I bend over, hands on knees as I dry heave. I hate this. I hate life, I need relief. I need help.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the glistening gleam of the knife. I crawl over to it, not caring as I get scratched from my books and my housemates' books that litter the room. I grab the knife and stare at it hungrily. How I've waited so long to do this again. I look at my clock and I can't believe I haven't done this in over 20 hours. I was wondering why hell seemed so close. My need betrays all logical instinct and I swipe the knife over my wrist, below the cut I'd made last night.

I stare at the cut as the blood starts to pool, and then glide down my arm. I feel a bit relieved, but still like shit. Why is this happening to me? Do I not deserve the simple pleasure of release that the knife grants? Have I done something wrong? Did I insult the knife by trying to resist?

"_PLEASE_," I beg, "_PLEASE let it start working again, I NEED THE PAIN TO STOP_" I scream at the top of my lungs. At the back of my mind I'm surprised that no one heard that. Although, they probably heard it but couldn't be fucked doing anything. After all, who cares about little old me? Not even my useless family does, though I'm told they really care.

I stare at the knife again as my mind starts to fog. How dare the knife defy me.

I seize the knife and slice it across my wrist. Once. Twice. Three times. I feel a small tingling in my wrist as I drop the knife which is now covered in my blood, as is the floor, the bed, and my clothes.

I look at my wrist, which is now decorated in crosses, scratches as I call them.

I feel my blood pressure dropping and my heart going back to normal speed.

Another night over, I can go back out there and be as everyone expects of me, for who am I to tell the truth to them and tell them about my dirty little habit.

AN: Hey, If you cut, or feel depressed in anyway you NEED to talk to someone, it's not a place that you should ever be. Please R&R, I'm considering continuing the story, but not if I get less than 10 reviews.


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